Dee Dee
by WTFWonder
Summary: Trouble on the double.
1. Prologue

**Dee Dee**

By Someone with Time on Their Hands

Summary: Trouble on the double.

It has been exactly one year since the Joker first exploded into Gotham City, and the annals of powerful lunatics through history and the world over. In that one year many things, a decade's worth of things happened. Harvey "White Knight" Dent died honorably for the people, whilst Harvey "Two-face" Dent died broken and insane post-homicide of three men and two cops. Batman, vigilante and scourge of the underworld was accused of murdering three men and two cops, raising the hackles of the public and ruffling the feathers of the criminals into fresh new fear of the night. Madmen, schizophrenics, psychopaths and even a few steel-brand ball-wielding mobs wormed into the streets like weeds. Obsessive compulsive geniuses in green suits, kleptomaniac women hopping along rooftops, sad, short men abducting children for tea, fairytales and hallucinogens and even myths of some reptilian man-monster lurking in the sewers made the news on a nightly basis. Alongside the clockwork escapes and escapades of the original recipe Arkhamites, the Scarecrow and the Clown Prince of Crime, as a particularly cheesy tabloid came to dub him, himself.

And the Jokerz. The Jokerz were a development that began to fester halfway through the year.

Outside the cornball addition of a "z" to their title, the Jokerz were becoming a progressively problematic plague on the fair public. Following the trend of movie monsters and serial killers thriving through the eighties, the Joker had exploded into perverse popularity with the misguided, delusional, aggressive youth. It had started with a sick shot at profit by Hot Topic and Spencer's outlets in the form of t-shirts and dolls, even mock-ups of the Joker goons' masks and the harlequin's own purple suit next to the Halloween costumes of Freddy and the Jigsaw puppet. For the first three weeks the merchandise had sold like hotcakes to the disgust of parents, teachers, police and all other incarnations of The Man.

Until the Joker got wind of it.

At the start of the fourth week of merchandising, a queer illness began to wash over the buyers, the clerks and the manufacturers of the Joker memorabilia. They became insanely euphoric in the hours after they handled the products. Young men chuckled at having their food court soda spilled on their laps, girls cackled when they realized they couldn't buy their new shoes because their card was maxed out, and workers of all ages succumbed to the giggles when getting hell from their managers for causing a ruckus. After a maximum of two hours, these laughing fools felt their hearts stop, their throats shrink and their mouths creak up and freeze into permanent rictus grins as they died in stores, cars and on sidewalks for the bystanders to behold. Not long after, the perpetrator himself saved the forensic teams of the GCPD hours of manpower with a DVD to various news stations.

The message opened on the Joker's iconic face and the image of a revolving chair with its back turned beyond the murderer, the balding, green-haired back of a man's head peeking over its top. Joker smiled endearingly at his audience, swept his grassy hair back and straightened his lapels. "Hello kiddies, it's your good pal, Uncle Jokerrr. Now kids, punks, adolescents and various feces-stirrers in the making—I liked to think of myself as a…humble man. A man of few needs, fewer inhibitions, and _no rules_. Well," he leaned into the camera and clapped his gloves once, "you all just proved me wrong on the last count, didn't you? Honestly, I'd, ah, like to thank the few responsible for this epiphany by bringing joy to their lives, for the _rest_ of their lives. As you know by now that's pretty easy when said lives last as long as a Christopher Nolan movie.

"Now you, ah, might want to know just what you helped me realize: turns out, I _do_ have a rule." Joker clasped his hands behind his back and sauntered to the revolving chair in the background. He drummed his fingers along the chair's back. "My shiny new rule," he glanced at the camera, "is _thou shalt not use me as your merchandising whore._" He grabbed the cushion of the chair and gave it a huge whirl. The man in the seat spun before the audience in a blur until the clown halted it by the armrest. The man slouched in the chair wore one of the mass-produced polyester blend Joker suit, his slack arms full of various dolls, bobble heads and a pile of t-shirts flopped in his lap, the one on top reading: _LOOK AT ME!_ His green-dyed hair had receded nearly to the middle of his scalp and his doughy face was stained with the trademark red, white and black of the Joker Face Makeup Kit ©. His mouth was frozen in the same rictus smile of his latest customers, but with the addition of two Glasgow slashes in his rippled cheeks. Joker puckered his lips and sighed.

"Unfor-tun-ate-ly, Mr. CEO Cane had to figure it out the hard way, like the other wayward producers and consumers of those fine Harlequin of Hate products." He grabbed his chin and looked quizzically at the camera. "That _is_ what my new news handle is right? I keep forgetting if I'm the Clown Prince of Crime, the Mogul of Mountebanks or the Caliph of Clowns—can't keep up with the vogue I guess. Anyway kids," he shoved Mr. Cane out of the chair with a solid _thump_ and flopped into the seat. He spun a few times and propelled his way towards the camera, "it's not that I don't appreciate a little idolization, worship and sticking it to your oppressive authority figure of choice. I like the idea of the next generation emulating me, the glistening role model of the century; _I like it_. Embrace chaos, anarchy, madness and all those fun synonyms for disorder you've heard me say on whatever YouTube clips you've saved and rewound a million times.

"The, ah, problem with your support is that you. Are. Buying. It." The Joker looked up through his brow and his lips creased into a severe frown against his scars, turning the red smear into a grisly W. "My philosophy, my worldview…the _truth_…was, is, and always will be free. You don't need to donate to your local Nihilist Charity Drive, nor should you steal money in my name—unless it's for firearms or a lake of gasoline of course. Do not fork over your Franklins for toys with my sticker on them unless you want to die happy in a hurry. Be a, uh, do it yourselfer like Yours Truly. Use cheap face paint, cobble together your own snappy get-ups, start your own catchphrase and raise some chaos the old-fashioned way. As for those of you who got your mass-produced Joker paraphernalia before my special edition wave came out, congratulations!" His face burst into sheer jubilance. "You've got yourself some real collector's items, don't you? You can hide them in your closet or with the Precious Moments figurines in your glass cabinets. Or to be _really_ entre-preneu-rial, you could hock them off online!" He grinned sunnily and kicked himself in a circle. "Provided—of course—I don't—track—each—and—every—one—of you—dow-ow-ownnnhee-hee-hee-he-heEeEeEeee!"

He skidded to a stop. "As you adoring fans know by now, I get ants in my pants in a matter of seconds. One bored night I might, oh say, follow your web trail, or some of these," he flashed a wad of receipts from inside his lapel, "all the way back to your little corner of the city so I can carve my autograph into the goodies, among other things, myself. My advice? Burn it. _Burn it all_, _kids_. Chuck the stuff in the furnace, roast marshmallows over mini effigies of my plastic look-alikes, or, better yet, stuff them in big glass jars and hurl them at IRS buildings and the GCPD in Joker brand Molokov cocktails. Then you'll definitely win some brownie points." He hopped out of the chair and kicked it away until the wheels struck Mr. Cane's meaty thigh.

"Think of this as me rubbing your nose in the mess you all made on the carpet. I was very disappointed in you," he wagged his finger at the audience, "but I did it because I care. Practice makes perfect, and I want you all to _keep at it_. You'll do good by your Uncle Joker yet, as long as you spread the gospel by grass roots. I'll be keeping my eye out for progress. _Ha-ha-ha-HAA-ha-haa-HAAAA--!_" The clip ended. The first day it was aired every separate news station had a ratings explosion on par with the Joker's first film. All the outlets that had been selling the Joker products had ceased production immediately, but also saw a nose dive in overall sales. The bulk of teenagers had all but abandoned the alternative stores completely. Around the same time, the Jokerz phenomenon began to raise its amorphous head.

In the days following the first airing, Gotham City Police Department received gifts of twelve Joker cocktails with only three perpetrators getting arrested. The various IRS buildings were even unluckier, getting a quota of about twenty cocktails each with no arrests. To top it off, one particularly ballsy group had signed their building with a giant red spray paint smile, a string of _**HA-HA-HA**_ and a satirical **WWJD?** The next attack was signed similarly but with a **Sincerely, the Jokerz **to cap it off. It grew like a virus from there, constantly feeding on itself from then on. The graffiti of walls and bridges began to get more distinct theme of reds, whites, purples, and greens. Smiles, painted laughter, quotes of the Joker and historical lunatics and even one outstanding full-scale portrait of the Joker cackling and holding two broken halves of the world. It was even the focal piece of the GTV special on the "Jokerz Pandemic."

Then came the forums. Underground websites and chatrooms for Joker enthusiasts to gush and self-proclaimed Jokerz gang members to plan new vandalization sites. The police were lucky to shut down one every two months, let alone find one. Dark-rimmed eyes and pale complexions extended out of the Goth circles, along with bright lips and brighter clothes. The ex-Joker merchandise retailers took note and, without tacking "Joker" on the labels, began putting ghoulish and giddy attire on the hangers. Cream white, ruby red and ash black makeup began to clog the makeup racks with example pictures of skull faces and heart-printed cheeks on the cases. Hair dye of unnatural color made a tremendous rise in popularity too. Even movie outlets made killings in the double-edged sale of non-monster slasher films and comedies. The trend expanded like blood in the water—silent, but visible.

Needless to say the cops and Batman had their hands full every night as opposed to getting the occasional night off in a span of three weeks.

Adolescents were being hauled in again and again, some devout few laughing theatrically when news cameras were nearby. These same few were all too glad to swallow the microphones of eager reporters. "Why the hell are you people bothering!? There's no beating us! There's no beating _him_!"

"The Joker trumps everything you pseudo-moral zombies!"

"You think this is just a fad, man? You think this is just a--a passing storm!? We're _growing_ you bastards! We're growing because more and more are learning the truth! We're growing _and we're gonna' smother you and you're Stepford smiling asses!_"

Oddly enough, the one who struck the strongest cord was the sullen young man in the sad clown makeup who whispered: "You are afraid. All of you. But not for the reason you think. You think you're afraid these young men and women will trash or steal your cars. That we'll vandalize your places of business or fling a fireball through your window. No. You're afraid because we're expanding. And we're starting to do more. _That's_ what you fear. That we are…escalating. More things are starting to burn. More statues and gargoyles are smiling down at you. More people are getting 'prank' beatings." Here the young man leaned into the microphone so that he nearly kissed the microphone. "When do you think the first kill will come? The first slashed mouth? The first bombing by the Joker's children? We aren't _the_ Joker. We never will be." He leaned in again and the reporter took a step back. "But a slashed throat kills just as well as decapitation."

The young man was identified as Jeffrey Manning and made Jokerz history later that night in his cell. Sharing said cell was Mr. Henry Biller who'd been thrown in for very severe drunk driving. Before the guards knew he'd done it, Jeff had pulled the tip of the Exacto knife he'd concealed in the heel of his sole and cut a bloody hole in the Biller's neck, slashed a Glasgow grin into the man's stubbled face and carved _#1_ into the forehead.

The first true Jokerz member was born.

While the kill count didn't erupt, it certainly simmered higher than usual. Most only resulted in disfiguration. Others were just done sloppily. But a select few were simple, clean cuts to the face. In fact, the first bomb attack would have gone off without a hitch if not for the Batman. All of this is mere exposition of course. Up until a clandestine Thursday night in the core of Gotham City, this orgy of Jokerz history would mean bupkiss. As it stood, that Thursday night toppled the first domino in a mangled maze of other waiting pieces for the girls known as Dee Dee.


	2. Deeds of Evil

Boxy Bennett was a happy man that Thursday night. His boys had signed up two convenience stores and a new bank up for their special strain of protection. Five fine men in blue and badges had been gunned down with not a casualty or arrest on his side of the gunplay. His gopher had even snagged him the last three raspberry-filled donuts from the Pastry Palace. Life had been especially good to him that day, and he'd thought a fun-filled evening at the Iris Nights club would be a great way to cap it off. One hour in, Boxy realized he was wrong: it was the perfect way to cap it off.

Boxy had the vices of any man, albeit he enjoyed them in far greater excess and with heavier artillery than John Q. Public. He liked a good drink with a good steak. Certain sports and TV series recorded to the second. And then there were women, his favorite Achilles' heel. Most women he played with felt like a hammer to that heel, or even a dumbbell. But sitting in his reserved leather booth, with a tumbler glistening in the pulses of rainbow lights, a gaggle of armed goons stationed throughout the crowd, and reasonably buxom babes dancing all around him, Boxy could see not one, but two wrecking balls swinging right towards his foot.

Swaying down the metal staircase were the most picture perfect twins he'd ever laid eyes on. They were identical from the angel faces, to the C cups, to the hips and all the way down their bare legs, all of that swathed in itty bitty black dresses and heels. Blonde hair hung past those symmetrical pert rumps in curtains. The kicker? They were waltzing through the crowd of pulsing dancers, ignoring the ogles of men half his age, and shooting straight for him with red smiles splitting their cheeks. The twin on the right whispered to the one on the left. The left one giggled, whispered back to the right. The right giggled. Both blondes halted at the edge of his table.

"Can I help you young ladies?" He didn't say it ironically. They barely looked eighteen, if that. When they giggled again he swore he could hear a high school jingle in it.

The one on the right: "Yeah. We saw you coming in--,"

The one on the left: "—and we were just wondering…this is stupid, but we were wondering--,"

Right: "Are—are you Antonio Banderas?" Boxy laughed warmly. He'd seen a passing resemblance to the actor in his mirror a few times, and prided himself on it, cultivating the trilling "rrr" he'd received from his mother. Boxy shook his head and shrugged.

"I'm afraid," note the "rrr" ladies, " not. The name's Boxy, and you two are..?" The twins tilted their heads in mirror bows.

"Dee Dee." Aw, and they had a mimic gimmick. Corny, but endearingly sexy. "Everyone calls us the Deeds."

Boxy nodded. "Pleasure to meet you Deeds. Now that I've sadly disillusioned you…is there anything _else_ I can do for you?" Without missing a beat each Dee Dee slid across the upholstery to be hip-to-hip with the mob boss, smiles frozen.

Unison: "Well,"

Right: "would you be able to,"

Left: "break this hundred?" She'd retrieved a hundred dollar bill from God knew where on her outfit.

They leaned their lips into the shoulders of his suit. "We're so, _so_ thirsty."

Boxy snorted at the tone in their high school voices, the irregular ring of honest giddiness that most gold diggers had to fake. With the proper accent they could've been valley girl beach bunnies. The question of future coital hijincks was up in the air, but hey, hot twins who wanted to flirt for drinks? He could live with that tonight. Boxy nudged the Franklin away as he pulled out his wallet. "Put it away Dee Dee, I can cover it. What can I get for you?" Turned out they only wanted classic martinis, two olives on each toothpick. The whole evening was a constant high note from then on. They flirted, schmoozed, and otherwise tickled each other for the next two hours, the Deeds growing progressively cozier.

At alternative times Mr. Bennett felt dainty little hands spidering their way around his chest, stomach and most delightfully around his ass and crotch. Sadly it progressed no further by the end of those golden two hours in the artificial heat and sporadic darkness. It ended sweetly with synchronized kisses on his tan cheekbones and a breathy, "Bye-bye Boxy," in each ear. With that the twins slunk out from behind the table, tossed cheeky winks over their shoulders, those cute cabooses swinging merrily up the stairs and out the door. Mr. Bennett sighed and slouched into the leather. Life was very, very good. "Wait." As he leaned into the seat, he noticed the lack of wallet-shaped pressure in his back pocket. His hands swept feverishly through his pockets finding nothing but his car keys and a folded piece of paper.

He yanked it out and read the looping red print:

_Dear Whichever Dapper Dandy Donated Tonight, _

_Yoinks!_

_Lots of Love,_

_Dee Dee _

All at once Boxy Bennett's brilliant Thursday evaporated in the boiling rage bursting behind his brown eyes. He tore the note between his hands and toppled the table as he stood. "_Those little b--!_"

XXX

"—itches."

"What?" Deidre looked at her sister using her knees to steer the car and her hands to dig at her wig.

"These wigs always get so damn itchy. Another minute rubbing against 'Antonio' and I would've torn it off mid-grope." Deidre snickered as Delia gave a final tug and the waterfall of blonde was ripped from her scalp, a copy of her sister's orange bob fluffing out of captivity. Delia shook her head and returned her hands to the wheel. "So, did we get all of it?"

"Let's see, let's see. We got a gold pocket watch, and a Gucci wallet" Deidre flipped through the billfold in practiced digs and jabs. "A few credit cards, six hundred and fifty bucks aaand," she pulled out a tiny white rectangle, "the business card of one ACE Chemical and Metallurgy Co." Delia turned a sharp corner and their tummies fluttered.

"Pretty good, pretty good. I know I grabbed a pretty cool cigar case though."

"A what? Wait, where'd I put it?" Deidre brushed the tip of her shoe along the car floor, a fuzzy thing littered with various straw and gum wrappers. She struck silver.

"Got it. Ooh-hoo, somebody's going to the pawn shop." It was a smidge bigger than a handheld computer with an exquisite illustration of a rainforest and various animals over the case.

"Pretty good grab if I do say so myself, Dee Dee.", Delia chirped as she sped through a red light, picking up speed. Empty streets weren't for nothing after all.

"I'd have to agree Dee Dee.", Deidre sang back as she fiddled with the latch of the box. It popped open and the passenger twin breathed in the smell of Cuba.

"I bet we could hock the cigars for more than the case. Do we want to pawn the watch and wallet too or not? Ooooh, ramp-ramp-ramp!"

"Go-go-go-go-_go_!" The Dennis twins squealed as the car fired over the wooden construction ramp in Dukes of Hazzard style, the wood itself cracking behind the rear wheels. The chassis landed with a satisfactory _ka-chunk_ and the crowing of girls. Delia and Deidre hammered their palms against the dashboard as the former's knees steered them into the dimmer streets of Gotham, mere blocks from the rat's nest they called home. "Freakin' awesome!"

"I know right? D'you think there are any new one's around before we get back or _holy sh--!_"

_Sh-crunchtt! Thump-ptt! Screeech._

Delia and Deidre Dennis froze in their seats, Delia's hands crushing trenches into the steering wheel while Deidre's flattened handprints into the dashboard. They had just ran over a pedestrian. There was a three second pause as they waited for apartment lights to flash on or police sirens to whoop. No one so much as yelled. All that in mind Deidre had this to say: "Dibs on cash."

"Cards and toys." They scuttled out of their doors and to the back of the car. The guy was face down, but with his stomach up with only the barest spurt of blood pooling beneath him. Deidre was thumbing through the wallet with record speed, while Delia took her time, squinting through the dimly streetlit air at the guy's attire. Polka-dotted pants. A striped coat. Curly blue hair. The cadaver's hands lay palm up on the asphalt, a semi-automatic in one and a lead pipe in the other. Delia grabbed these as Deidre watched, realization blooming in synch. Deidre squeezed the denim billfold tighter in her hands as her sister flipped the colorful corpse to face them. They were greeted with the sallow, shocked visage of a young man no older than them, his face slathered with cream white makeup and a Tim Burton-twisted green smile smeared on his jaws. The color scheme was pulled together with the artful splatters of blood dripping over the paint and clown duds.

One of the Jokerz.

Unison: "Huh."

Deidre tapped her cheek with the wallet before tucking it into her bra. "We just killed a Joker."

Delia eyeballed the barrel of the gun before flipping her hair with it, rolling the pipe in her fingers like a giant cigar. "We should go to the cops." They caught each others' eyes.

"You're a laugh and a half Dee Dee."

"We do try Dee Dee."

"God _damn_ it!" The girls looked up to see a cluster of garishly get-upped teenagers stalking out of the dark alley the Deeds could only assume their new friend had wandered out of. It was a boy in a mockup of the Joker's suit with a vaguely roaring 20's motif. Coifed green hair, cleaner Joker face, tails, spats and even a hanky in his breast pocket. The rest of his merry brood were in more original apparel, ranging from marionette mouths to various suspenders and vibrant trenchcoats. Not to mention the guns and various blunt objects. The sisters doubted they shot BANG flags and confetti.

The Joker wannabe was yelling at them. "You bitches just killed Curly!", he bellowed as he brandished what looked like a sawed-off machine gun. The Dennises stood shoulder-to-shoulder, Delia passing the gun to her sister behind their legs. They smiled with the sun through their lips.

"Oh, looks like it." They skipped over the cadaver and the Jokerz cocked their respective weapons.

"Really sorry."

"_Really_."

The smiles quirked into diabetes-sweet pouts. "Is there anything we can do to make it up?" One thumb stroked a trigger, another fastened its sibling digits to a lead pipe. Muscles tensed on both sides until the Joker clone spoke his mind.

"Depends. Can you fight?" Behind him his entire posse groaned or went bug-eyed. A daisy-dappled girl in purple polka dots slapped her forehead with the unarmed hand.

"J-Man, you're not seriously inviting Barbie's slutty cousins into the fight are you?"

"Daisy, Mr. Bill already finked out on us, Curly's dead and we've got at least nine guys waiting for us at the basketball court. Slutty or not, we need some numbers."

"…And some Playboy twins.", murmured a young man with a bowler hat and a sledgehammer. He was rewarded a kick in the shin from a mime girl. J-Man cleared his throat and turned back to the Deeds who'd grown bored and perched idly on the car's trunk.

"Here's the deal. On a more accommodating night we'd have to kill the both of you--,"

"Not that we're ruling it out," Daisy hummed as she fondled her gun.

"—but we're coming up short for an upcoming Gladiator reenactment, complete with real death. If you can at least stand around and look, I don't know, more threatening than cocktail waitresses, and we don't _all _get our asses handed to us, you're off scot free. Ish. You know, if my friends aren't still itchy afterwards." The rest of the gang re-cocked their weapons for emphasis.

"Hmm. It looks like we're at a hair trigger crossroads, Dee Dee."

"If we say no, we could be dead before we make it home to dear old Nana Harley, Dee Dee."

"But if we say yes, we could still be walking into certain death."

"Knives swinging,"

"Bullets flying,"

"Punches cracking,"

"Bombs booming,"

"Bones breaking,"

"Flesh tearing..!"

"…"

"…"

They hopped onto the asphalt and clicked their heels together. "We'll do it!"

"Goody goody. Now follow me and only aim at the guys who aren't us." The gang and their tagalongs marched into the neighboring alley, a distinctly un-citylike silence clouding what air wasn't taken up by the Jokerz garbled self-hype talk. No tenants clanging around on fire escapes, no spouses arguing with each other or random guns going off amongst deafening car accidents.

Delia patted her shoulder with the pipe, watching bowler boy watch her sister. "Sooo. Any chance of you explaining where we're going and why nobody's bothered to phone in vehicular manslaughter?" A rainbowtastic boy with a machete scratched the back of his neck.

"Long story short, the neighborhood's caught wind of the tournament going down tonight."

"Tournament?"

"Like, oh em gee, it's totally a Jokerz thing, dee-dee-dee."

"It's Dee Dee, Daisy.", informed the Dee Dees.

"_Anyway_, the Jokerz are basically having winner-take-all throwdowns set up on the forums."

Delia and Deidre sidled up to either side of the kaleidoscope boy. Deidre: "Winner-take-all meaning possessions or..?" She twirled the gun and rainbow boy nodded.

"_All_-all. The winners get to go to the forum, pick up the next date and time, until the big man himself has us narrowed down to the best of the best."

"Still say this is ninety percent crap.", a guy in a coxcomb grumbled.

J-Man groaned. "For the hundredth time, it's legit! The Joker put his own freaking video on it didn't he?"

"Yeah I watched it, and I still call bullshit on this man! So some guy dresses himself up like Mr. J, synthesizes his voice and uses trademark shaky cam," he finger quoted, "and bad lighting, and we're just supposed to go along with it? I've killed five people in the last two weeks, and I have not seen hide nor hair of the clown. Not even a clip on GTV of him tellin' us what a _great _job we're doing. For all we know, this is just some guy playing us like monkeys killin' each other off for him to get off on his God complex or something."

"Have you been taking pussy lessons from Mr. Bill? You have haven't you, because that's the exact same line he fed me before he pissed his pants and ran."

"I'm not running after Mr. freakin' Bill, I'm just saying if this were some legitimate thing, the Joker would have made it public, laughed his ass off at the ball-less incompetence of the Bat-freak and the cops, and set somethin' on fire or something. In the past _month_ the man's been out of Arkham and far as anyone knows, he's gone into hibernation. I say we stop this suicide parade, trash some public corporate property, rob and plow the little redhead riding hood twins and call it a night--."

"Shut up, and man up Jester! We're here." They'd reached the light at the end of a maze of dark alleys, said illumination only made present by the trashcan fires bordering the basketball court. The court was choked by four dilapidated buildings and furnished by the trash torches and the rusted skeletons of the basketball poles. The baker's dozen of enemy Jokerz were a nice touch too.

Daisy took a slinking step towards J-Man, her eyes glued to the steadily smugger opposing group. "J-Man? Sweetie? Tell me I just need glasses and I'm not seeing thirteen of those bastards."

"The forum said _nine_ were--."

"The forum?" This came from the giant in red and black suspenders on the other side of the court. In his monstrous hands was what was the biggest hammer any of the adolescents had ever seen. "You were actually 'following the rules' in a Joker game?" The big man's group broke into a giggle fit. "Only rule in a death match is make sure the other guy dies. If you were stupid enough to fudge your numbers, s'no skin off our nose."

"Did you even plan on leaving alive?," a girl in a clown wig and skimpy muumuu crowed, "I mean, nine on its own would've been sad, but I'm only counting seven." Fresh alarm sparked as the newcomers realized how suddenly whittled they'd become. The mime's body language took three seconds to express what rainbow boy took one second to voice.

"Those _bitches_." The baker's dozen group cackled and began to move forward.

"Can't blame 'em for runnin'. I mean, you got a grand total of two guns, and a couple of blades and hammers you _hope_ will hit a target. And we—well…" The colossus hefted his hammer and revealed his own handgun while his followers revealed at least one gun each on their person. "…I'm not gonna' lie, we're gonna' slaughter you." Another ripple of giggling, hyenas edging towards a herd of buffalo who had until recently thought they were hyenas too. Panicked thoughts flapped in young skulls as their feet jittered in their vibrant shoes. (Forward or back, fight or flight?)

The air around the J-Man Jokerz crackled with the pre-decision second of electricity of combatants about to learn whether they were wolves or Chihuahuas. In that second every weapon rose, the giant's mallet aimed squarely for J-Man's creamy temple. A romantic voyeur might find the frozen scene passionate; rife with the fever and rancor of medieval war paintings. Limbs tensed, red-orange light flashing angry noir shadows from the fires, metal glinting sharp and sweaty in that same glow.

The ideally Snyderesque scene shattered with some brisk onomatopoeias.

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

_BANG!_

There was another prose-perfect pause before five clowns dropped, three whinnied with pain and the remaining unscathed exploded with bewildered profanity. This was followed by one more onomatopoeia.

_Bonk!_

The semi-automatic bounced comically off the giant's painted forehead. All eyes went to the towering fire escape where a pair of high heels dangled, their owner perched cozily on the iron banister. "Sorry! Us and our butterfingers, huh Dee Dee?" The non-pain-riddled eyes of the shrunken team widened, their guns lifting to meet the gaze of the redhead.

"Kill her--!"

"Who's we, Dee Dee?" There was a metallic rattle from the building opposite the amateur sniper as the latter's twin pounced, the pipe twinkling once before it came down. There was no comic book-appropriate word for the resulting sound. A mental ear would compare it to a spastic farmer taking a lead club to his clown cows. Over and over and over. Three more fell and two crumpled to the ground, clutching their splintered legs. Delia lost the pipe in the muumuu girl's teeth before she scampered away from the stuttering gunfire and hammer swings and to the side of her landed sister.

They proceeded to cartwheel back into the basketball court, their advice coming out in quick breaths. "Feel—free—to--join!" A blink later, J-Man's Jokerz realized they now outnumbered the upright opposition. The ensuing murder spree passed in heartbeats, stabs, bludgeons and shots. By the time it was over the opposition's standers were massacred and their wounded were pulpy ribbons. All anyone could hear was the dull post-gunfire ringing in their ears and the half-sound half-feeling of panting.

"So we…we won. Right..?", bowler boy managed.

"Right.", Daisy sighed, glee re-puffing itself up in her painted face. The sensation spread through them in relieved chuckles as she repeated, "Right! We won! We killed their asses and we're going to the next--!" The mime, a girl known as Mimette in her crowd and Minnie Johanson to the family, would later regret her chosen motif. For if she hadn't kept with the theatre of playing mute, she could've have warned the daisy-dappled girl that Death was whistling toward her on the end of a mallet. All her part allowed her was a brief monochrome face of fear and flailing hands before her suit was marred by the red spittle of the blonde's skull.

_Then_ Mimette screamed.

The colossus was back up, a pale Hulk with rivulets of blood vanishing into the dark of his clothes. His rampage was snuffed before it could gain momentum by two pointy toes diving classily into his crotch. The giant's howl shrank to a hamster's squeal before four petite hands—he had a last, miniscule victory in seeing that the palms on his eyes sported a few calluses—grabbed his head and twisted it 180 degrees. Delia and Deidre posed prettily as his bulk slammed on top of Daisy's corpse. They locked eyes, smiled and high-fived each other cheesily. "Was that, like, a million times better than pickpocketing, or was it just me?"

"It's just you. It was a freaking _trillion_ times better than pickpocketing! You totally pulled a Matrix move back there, going all Neo and--!"

"Um."

"Puh-lease, like that's the same as sniping half the guys sitting down and--!"

"I _know_ and I know I only nicked a few, but seriously five freaking headshots on my first try--!"

"Hey."

"I didn't know I could make knees bend that way or--!"

"Exploded like watermelons on crack--!"

"_Shut up!_"

The twins turned to see a harried J-Man, green hair askew and shoulders rigid. Unison: "What?" J-Man took a calming breath, slicked back his hair and flexed his non-gun fingers.

"Dee Dees, in light of the recent, uh, actions on your part, I feel I should say…that was downright boneriffic."

Jester nodded and rubbed his head through the coxcomb. "Got to admit, you two have some serious kung-fu shit goin' on."

Delia smirked, "Anything for our potential gangbangers." Jester looked at them queerly for a second before memory kicked in. He cleared his throat and tossed one of the hat's bells behind his shoulder.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, about that I'm uh..."

"What he's trying to say is he, and all of us, are deeply sorry and are wondering if--."

Bowler boy pulled off the amazing multitask of patting Mimette on the back and clarifying, "You chicks kick major ass, wanna' join the team?" J-Man blinked.

"Great way with words Groucho, _wonderful_ way."

"Like you weren't thinking it."

"I'm going for eloquence here, jackass, and--."

"Th-they. They killed. They killed C-Curly! Let the big. Let the big guy kill Daisy! And-and-and you're inviting them to join—to j-join the team!?", Mimette stammered as she buried herself in Groucho's shirt. Rainbow boy and his clown-masked brethren muttered some affirmatives from their spot leaning against the bricks.

Rainbow himself monotoned, "Yeah. They killed one of our guys accidentally and we're lucky they offed Mongo over there before he could get to the rest of us. Not like we're a bunch of saints here."

The boy in the smiling clown mask nodded and chimed in, "Saw you crack a couple skulls in there too. 'Sides, aren't you supposed to keep your mouth shut Mimey?"

"_Anyway_. Anyway, we think you're definitely Jokerz material. We could use your kind of manpowerrrr _girl_ power in the last tournament. Our group wins and we'll be working for Mr. J, himself."

"Uh-huh."

"Intriguing." The Deeds shared a glance.

"No." Before any of the Jokerz could protest, the girls strolled up to J-Man and hung off either arm.

"Here's the problem as we see it, Jay-Jay."

"We like the nightlife."

"We love the thrill."

"We like a good fight."

"Turns out we love a good kill."

"We've stuck with each other when conning this town."

"And we don't need lessons or orders from a psychopathic clown."

"…_What?_"

"Okay, Dr. Seuss crap aside, Deidre and I are all for causing mayhem, madness and the whole hell raising thing."

"There's no denying you guys plan great social events. I doubt Bruce Wayne will ever think of a Death Match for Charity drive."

"But."

"But."

" We can make our own fun and have been since we could drive."

"And we don't see why we should let the Joker put a leash on said fun-making."

Dee Dee checked their nails as J-Man threw disbelieving glances at either one of them.

"Are you kidding me? Do you chicks not watch the news? Every time the Joker shows up he's attacked something, or killed someone, or driven a semi through a nursing home! What's more fun than that?" The Deeds hummed to themselves and pulled away from the boy.

"Not much we'll admit."

"But we could do it ourselves if we wanted to."

"Good luck though."

"Oh come on, you can pick the dead guys' pockets and hey, for all we know, you can just tell the Joker you were in it for kicks. At least—hold on—at least take this to think on." J-Man pulled a playing card from a breast pocket, a laughing harlequin gaping at the twins. Delia grabbed it and flipped the face over to see a square of small print. "Follow the directions and you'll get to our site."

"In the meantime," rainbow boy grunted as he flipped over a corpse and began rooting in the pockets, "want to go dead man diving?" The Dennises' eyes lit up, Deidre walking ahead of her sister.

"Just for a minute or two."

Delia was about to raid the giant went a sudden, horrific thought dawned on her. "Does anybody have the time?"

One of the masked boys whipped out his cellphone and announced, "One forty-seven, why?"

"Oh double crap.", the twins cursed as they turned tail and headed back for the car.

"What? What's wrong?"

"Can't talk--,"

"Past curfew—,"

"Fate worse than death gottagobye!" With that their silhouettes vanished into the alley and the rest of the labyrinth to the car. Delia nearly tripped over Curly before clambering into the driver's side, Deidre already in the passenger's seat and pulling the polyester uniform on over her black dress.

"Hurry up, hurry up!"

"I'm going as fast as I can, but there are cars on the road in case you couldn't tell! I put the—move it, moron, the light's not getting any greener!—I put the nametags in the glove compartment." Deidre pulled the tags from the cluttered cave and pinned hers over her left breast. "You good?" Deidre pulled four barrettes from the glove compartment and clipped her bob out of her face with two.

"Yeah, park and I'll take the wheel." Delia screeched into a parallel parking spot and they raced to each others' seats, slamming the doors after them. Deidre sped back onto the road as Delia retrieved her own baby blue uniform on, tucking the straps of her black dress under the sleeves of the disguise. On went the nametag and hairclips and she was pending into the backseat, feeling for their Converses.

"Where'd you put the shoes, where'd you put them?"

"Um, uh, under your seat! To the right." Delia bent back and groped under her seat, pulling out the red and white shoes, untangling the double knots as she did.

"Why are you slowing down, we're already half an hour past curfew--."

"Because we're here and I don't want to wake Nana if she conked out." The sisters pulled into the apartment complex's parking shelter. Four grey eyes peered out the windshield, scanning the their small home's windows. No open curtains. No lights on. No hunched crones surveying the land for her poor, tormented granddaughters. "Maybe she's out?"

"Maybe she's sleeping?"

"…"

"…"

Maybe it would rain gumballs and water would turn into grape soda. The twins sighed and switched out their shoes resignedly. Their spoils and high heels were scooped up and split between their backpacks. They padded up the stairwell to home sweet apartment 6C and pressed their ears to the door. _Golden Girls_ wasn't playing in the background, nor any crotchety old 20's songs. Not even the soft _tep-tep-tep_ of Nana Harley's cane. Delia and Deidre shared a smile—halfway to home free. Deidre slid the key into its lock, the twins wincing at the entirely too loud _clang_ of the latch sliding in. The girls slinked inside and clicked the door shut with their rears. Pitch black clouded the living room with only the barest light glowing from the DVD player's digital clock and the puny city light through the single window.

Delia snickered quietly, "I think we're safe." On went the lights. There was the battered coffee table buried in coffee rings and women's magazines, the TV set bookended by racks of DVDs, the carpet splotched with mystery stains and the pissed off granny on the couch.

Deidre: "Or you know. Not." Nana Harley got to her withered feet and stalked to her wilting granddaughters. Grandmother Harleen Quinzel was a woman of more years than she'd care to tell, her face carved with the wrinkles of decades' old laughter and very recent scowls. Nearly white blonde hair was strangled into a bun with everything below the neck floating in sagging white and blue cloth. Nana Harley thwacked her cane soundly in her palm.

_Whap._

"Explain."

_Whap._

"Now." The Deeds fidgeted in their two dresses, Delia tugging at her collar and Deidre at the hem of the waitress skirt.

"Sorry Nana, Benny was short a few waiters and had us work late."

"If that ain't an understatement!"

"We got paid extra though." Nana Harley snorted and stabbed the carpet with her cane.

"Extra pay my tuckus! You see that?" A thin, crinkled finger jabbed towards the readout on the DVD player. A staggering 1:58 AM blinked on the screen. "Two in the God danged ay em! Bad enough you take the night shift anywhere, let alone at a _bar_,"

"Bar and _grill_--."

"Still a bar! Bad enough that my only little girls are out after dark serving drinks to who knows what kind of men in some seedy tavern, but now you're coming home after midnight!? I've half a mind, scratch that, a _whole_ mind, to drive up there and beat that—that _Benny_ within an inch of his drink-dealing, slave-driving life!" The old woman's face boiled red and the knuckles around the cane handle shone white.

"Watch the blood pressure Nana--."

"Oh don't you scamps 'Nana' me! You didn't bother to call me and when I called you _ten times_ you never answered! I thought I'd have a heart attack I was so scared! Another minute I was going to call the police I was so--!" The grandmother rubbed her drooping temple and groaned. Delia and Deidre raised a brow at each other. Deidre leaned her head towards the stub of a hall that lead to their room. Delia nodded. Their toes barely twitched before the granny snapped her baby blues open in grand-maternal fury. Both girls snapped back to attention. "I swear I am _this_ close to having you quit that awful place."

"But Nana!"

"No buts! You're two pretty girls working in a _bar_, at _night_ in one of the most crime-infested ratholes in the country! The hours alone are gonna' have you two falling asleep in gymnastic practice tomorrow! And now I got a headache." She pointed her cane out one sister and then the other. "You girls promise—you swear to God or whoever you're praying to these days—that you'll keep your cells on, with you, and will call at _at least_ midnight when you go out."

"We promise Nana Harley." Nana Harley whacked the cane in her palm.

"_Like you mean it._"

Dee Dee saluted and clicked their heels. "Ma'am, ma'am yes ma'am, Nana Harley, ma'am!" The grandmother nodded dourly and sighed.

"'Bout as good as I'll get from you two. Now get your patoots in bed before I beat ya' ta' sleep." Delia and Deidre scrammed to their room and slammed the door.

"Delia?"

"Deidre?"

"I say we start coming through the window.", she jerked her thumb at their single cracked window sandwiched between candy-striped curtains. The entire cube of a room was motif'd in shades of red, white, pink and black as if Little Bo Peep and Emily the Strange had bled all over the place. The bunk bed they'd had since age 7 still smothered one wall with their closet and dresser stealing another. What space was left consisted of a shrunken writing desk covered in various Sharpie graffiti work and two folding chairs leaning against the table's side. Books, magazines, comics, and a shoebox of old dolls rested in a candy cane-paint jobbed milk crate. Everything else was divided between the space under the lower bunk and the closet. The Dennis twins went to the latter.

They pulled out a briefcase each and unlatched the tops. Within dozens of different trinkets, wallets, spaghetti strap purses and a few compact weapons rested, all of them generously donated to Dee Dee over years of late, thrilling nights. Out came their own bags as they examined each catch and tucked it into their treasure chests. Delia was analyzing Curly's wallet—alias George Hill, age 19—when she remembered the calling card. She pulled the card from its hiding place and massaged the grinning mug on its front. "So, do you want to check it out?"

Deidre was still searching for any authentic marks on the gold of the pocket watch. "What?"

"This." She held it up to her twin, tapping her nail on the list of directions. Deidre clapped the watch closed, tossed it and began to fondle the calling card. "If tonight was any indication, this tournament thing will be fun."

Deidre gasped scandalously. "Theft, manslaughter, murder and a bunch of clowns trying to kill us? You think that's _fun_?"

"…"

"…Too hammy?"

"More like corny, cheesy ham."

"Seriously though, why bother with this thing? I mean, we've been getting our highs since before Joker even made the news. We really _don't_ need some psycho clown telling us who to mess with or how to have fun." She flipped the card between her fingers as Delia closed both suitcases and kicked them under the bunk.

"Who says we had to join after we curbstomp everyone else?"

"The Joker. That's what this whole set-up is supposed to be right? Recruiting Jokerz to be part of his crew or something."

"According to wannabe Joker, yeah. But," she plucked the card back, "we won't know until we check for ourselves." The Deeds walked to their joint laptop and Delia began to rapid fire type. "Besides, it's not like it's an absolute-must kind of thing. I see it as more, hold on," she read the web address of one Glasgow Grin For The Win dot com and entered it, "I see it as a different flavor of adrenaline high you know? Apples versus oranges, peanut butter versus jelly,"

"Firecrackers versus taking a napalm bath next to a lit grill."

"Yeah."

"Okay you're halfway to selling me. But what do we even know about this," she twirled her hand, "well, this whole thing?"

"We're about to find out." The website suddenly opened on a backdrop of ragged red, white, purple and green. A simple Joker fan site with a bar running along the top hosting all the facets of the site. History of the Chelsea and/or Glasgow grin, chronology of the Joker's public activity from the beginning to the present, links to other fan sites and forms. The calling card advised them to click on this. Once at the forum they weren't shocked to see hundreds of pages stored up since the site's construction seven months ago. The avatars glued beside most of the taglines were close-ups of the Joker's face, graffiti-painted smiles on brick walls or even some teens dumb enough to use their own faces made up in greasepaint. The forum topics themselves were always in a flux of the same threads.

_dID you guys see what he did 2 day!?!! teh joKer's a fukking genius!!_

_OMG Joker is ttly fighting Batman over Catwoman! Check out the pix, it prooves it!_

_Poll time: which is the Joker's greatest stunt to date?_

_Check out the damage the Jokerz did to my neighbors place!! Whoever you guys are—fuckin A!_

And et cetera. The twins' faces dropped. Delia cocked a brow and slid the mouse to the X button. "Okay, this already blows. You want to check the gymnastics schedule for next week or—hey!" Deidre took the mouse and tapped the search engine. She looked off the card and typed in the topic: "Serious? WHY?" The forum came up with only one result, a relatively unpopular thread with only a single comment on it. There was no avatar beside it, just the plain grey square of a person too lazy to paste one in. The thread poster was, likewise anticlimactically, Nobody.

"Weird."

"That's what card says to go to." They opened it on a puny message and the equally puny comment, still with no identifying icon, sincerely Nobody.

Message: Can the kids come out to play?

Comment: A web link in the phrase _Isn't there homework you should be doing?_

The calling card deemed the link clickable. Dee Dee raised a brow at each other.

_Click._

They were at another fan site now, swamped in black, purple and green with the text showing in red and white. From there it was a matter of following online breadcrumbs. Entering the right topics which led to the right web links over and over again.

Topic: Chaos Agency

Message: You shouldn't be up this late.

Comment/Link: _The Gee Cee Pee Dee has a strict curfew you know._

Topic: Have You Had a Bad Day?

Message: I sure did.

Comment/Link: _I see you want one too._

Topic: Laugh And The World

Message: Calls you insane out of ignorant jealousy.

Comment/Link: _Slay the green-eyed monster._

Topic: HA HA HA

Message: That's actual laughter.

Comment/Link: _El Oh El has nothing on the reeeal deeeal._

It went on for another ten sites after and the sisters were ready to call quits until they came to the last forum.

Topic: You Really Shouldn't Do It

Message: I'm warning you.

Comment/Link: _Don't do it kiddo. Think of your future! Your dear folks! Old Yeller and the orphans and Tiny Tim and Auntie Em and all the precious episodes of Seinfeld you'll miss!_

_Click._

Music blared from the speakers and four hands fumbled to turn it down. It was a congratulatory, trumpeting tune with a few drums and cymbals banging in. The black background faded into cartoony red stage curtains with electronic confetti falling from the top of the monitor. The music stopped and the curtains pulled away to reveal the accustomed murky view of the Joker's favorite camera. The light of the film was scanty with the Joker's surroundings dim and barely outlined. They were lumpy, queerly shaped things that shone in some places like metal and others like dull plastic. Then there was the Joker himself, if Jester was to be disbelieved, a leering phantom in shady purple. He stood front-and-center, head-to-toe for the audience to see. One glove reached into the coat and pulled out what Delia and Deidre thought was a pipe or a blowgun. Until he puckered his lips around it and blew the noisemaker one long _toooot_, spat it out and clapped proudly.

"Congratulations kiddies, you managed to, ah, traverse the purgatory of pixellls to get to the promised land. This means you've passed the first stage of hazing and I won't have to give you a swirlie or beat you with frozen oranges. Buuhut, you still have a few more rounds to go before I let you in the clubhouse." He shrugged and clapped once. "That's just how it goes kids. Tradition and all. But!" He stepped towards the lens and the twins felt a chill spin up their spines. "The next few rounds of initiation will be a _real_ blast. You and your Jokerz posse will be meeting up with all new factions of like-minded rogues, delinquents and rebellious youths! Every week as a matter of fact." The slashed smile broadened into the jagged grin of every coulrophobe's nightmare. The grin quickly drooped. "On the, ah-hah, _down_ side these brand new Jokerz buddies will die soon after you meet them. Cause of death?"

The Joker pointed out of the computer screen and at the fish-eyed sisters. "_You_. That's the gag, kids. This going to be hazing the gladiator way, Darwinism in its purest form, and something to fill up news days that would otherwise be filled with oh. So. Crucial updates on which chick Bruce Wayne's boning." The clown cupped his hand to the side of his mouth, leaned forward and whispered, "Zatanna trumps Selina Kyle all the way kiddies. Magic's the only thing that'll keep Brucie's wandering wang in one place." He leaned back. "Point being, your team's aim is to whack off the other team in the arena of my choice-_huh_. All the nitpicky details are coming up, but the short of it is that whichever teams are left standing will be invited here…", he lifted his arms grandly, hands displaying the half-unseen environment around him, "…to have one last mêlée. Whoever's left standing wins the honor of working with yours truly, up close and personal.

"Oh! And before I forget, I really, _really_ wouldn't recommend going and being a nark. I can see you now, telling mom, dad, and Uncle Gordon on our game. I wouldn't advise it. Snitches have a habit of getting pranked. With vivisection. Don't know what that word means? Ask the unlucky frogs that wind up in biology class. If you tell someone else to tell the authorities? I kill you both. Use Morse code to tell somebody to tell the authorities? I kill you both with your respective Morse machines. Telepathically let the boys in blue know what's going on? I get your autograph as being the first real psychic I've ever met, then I kill you and your brain buddy. You get the picture. In the much more likely case that you won't spill the beans on little old me, good luck!"

The film faded out on the Joker's high, jittery snickering.

Up came the schedule dozens of Jokerz gangs had been following for the past few weeks, the whole thing looking like the sparring trees drawn up for a martial arts tournament. At the beginning of the tree, where the branches were plentiful, there were no less than twenty-two Jokerz gangs, one pitted against the other. Looking under the current date there had only been ten groups fighting, including J-Man's and the big guy's. The next five branches were blank, the representatives of the living teams not entering their titles yet. Or maybe the other had all died, who knew?

"Has this been in the news at all?"

"What?"

Delia turned in the folding chair, Deidre hugging her legs to her chest. "Oh you know. The sudden rampant deaths of teenagers in clown paint all over the city."

"I think I might have caught something about it. Something-something-Batman did it, something-something-Joker did it, something-something Clown Flu, something."

"Sounds about right. So where's the next, er, last fight supposed to be?"

"Doesn't say, that spot's blank too. I guess J-Man and the other leaders have to fill their names in or something. Hold on," she scrolled down, "the directions,"

"In _super cool intimidating magazine letter cut-outs_.", Deidre illuminated with waving fingers.

"Different fonts _are_ quite foreboding. Anyway Mr. J gives the players a bunch of rules to keep the cops and Batman from ruining the game. Apparently each link to the arenas has some preschool simple map to each one. Gunplay should be kept to a minimum. Keep the arena lit with lamps, fires or piles of glow sticks. Fighting in the dark is an absolute negative. If you see Batman, don't bother fighting, just run or destroy the Joker card completely. Or commit murder suicide on a grand scale. Winners are supposed to take the dead guy's Joker card and any identification they have on them."

"Translation, rob their corpses."

"Yep. And it's basically whittling down the masses until the last round, i.e. the one we'd be joining."

"_If _we're joining." Deidre took the mouse and closed out of the window. She began to shuck both dresses and slip into p.j.s, Delia following. "I just don't see why you're so into being a killer clown.", Deidre said as she pulled on her nightie.

Delia pulled on her own and smeared the lipstick off with her knuckles. They raced for the top bunk with Deidre taking the lead, but Delia winning with a quick kick on the latter. The top bunk sister heard the bottom bunk sister mutter something along the lines of "jeeting bidge." Delia smirked and began to pull back the covers. "I don't. I just think it'd be a fun experiment. Hell, wouldn't you like to say you met the Joker?"

A thought blinked on in Deidre's head as she walked to the light switch. "Sure, _I'd_ like to meet him. But I'm thinking _you're_ just a coulrophile." The girl felt a pillow brush past her head in the dark as she skipped giggling into her bed.

"Am not! You tell anyone I am, and everyone finds out about your thing for Sean Connery--."

"Shut up. But I still don't know about it, Dee Dee."

"Like I do, Dee Dee. It's just a suggestion. We probably have a week to sleep on it," yawwwn, "on it anyway."

"Less talking more sleepin' you two!"

"Goodnight to you too Nana."


End file.
